


how long has it been since you had a second to yourself?

by Karentt1



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Gen, Hair Braiding, Hair Brushing, Hair Washing, Introspection, Long-Haired Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Not Beta Read, Retirement, Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), and having love lmao, and maybe starts to believe he's worthy to being taken care of, but longhaired technoblade is amazing, every version fanartists create of technoblade is lovely and perfect, technoblade practices selfcare, that is a hill i will die on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:27:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29547216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karentt1/pseuds/Karentt1
Summary: Wars and rebellions left no room for simple luxuries like expensive soap, and no time to properly wash your hair. Technoblade had gotten used to the constant feeling of dirt, blood, and grime under his armour.Well, Technoblade was retired now. Maybe it was time to take care of himself. Properly.
Comments: 37
Kudos: 231





	how long has it been since you had a second to yourself?

**Author's Note:**

> First I would like to say this- I didn't want to write fanfiction for the dream smp because i dont feel comfortable writing for real people. but this kinda just.....popped into existence. I would like to make it clear that this is about the characters that are portrayed during smp not the content creators (that may be obvious but i really want people to know.) 
> 
> Second, I hope you enjoy this. It was written really quickly so if there are any mistakes, pls tell me so i can fix them.

Technoblade gently untied the leather band that held his braid in place, the worn, dirt-streaked material sliding off easily and falling to the floor. It had been much too long. War and rebellions had been fought, and dictators had fallen in the time since he last properly washed his hair. Allies became enemies in the space between his last proper bath and now. It was time to change that. 

Retirement was serving him well. The tundra, however cold it may have been, was peaceful. The gentle snow was easy to deal with if you had the proper furs and food storage, and a little glacial weather wasn’t enough to stop him. For too long he served bloodshed, violence, and anarchy; he was trying something new this time. And with that peace came the time- time to relax, time to read, and more importantly, time to take care of himself. 

His hair didn’t unfold when he took it out. It stayed in place but that was expected. It was oily and filled with dirt, mud, and small bits of dried blood. He scrambled to get out of L’manberg- well, what was left of it at least- and he didn’t have time to consider small things like what his hair looked like. Even when he was fighting with Wilbur- _don’t think about him-_ and Tommy- _things hadn’t worked out the way you hoped, huh?-_ his baths took place in rivers and ponds, a quick rinse in frigid water that was only taken to get rid of most of the dirt. 

How long had it been since he last made himself comfortable in his own skin? How long had it been since a thin layer of dirt hadn’t covered his hands? 

His long fingers and nails threaded themselves between the pink strands, tugging harshly. The hair didn’t want to move, knots and tangles stopping him from unthreading it. He growled under his breath, feeling frustrated. This wasn’t something he wanted to do- he would much rather be outside, training, planting, anything than this. But it had to be done. His scalp was feeling itchy. 

After a few minutes, the battle against the braid was done. He stood, panting over his victory. His hair sat heavily on his head, the strands slightly wavy after being in a braid for so long. It looked limp and dirty as it draped over his shoulders. What had it been, weeks? Maybe a month since he washed it last? 

He felt dirty. 

The strands bumped against his back, almost touching his waist, the ends split, broken, and Technoblade wondered how it had gotten so long in such a little time. He liked his hair long, partly for the aesthetic but more importantly, for his pride. No one had touched him in so long- not that anyone wanted to, not like anyone would ever try. The faint memory of warriors tugging his head back and slicing off the strands with dull axes, his hair taken as some sick prize, still lingered, though he could no longer recall the warrior’s exact features. Had it been that long then, since anything sharp had been brought close enough to draw blood? 

He sighed and picked up a hairbrush, the handle made of smooth wood, shiny with oil. It had the faint scent of pine- the entire house did, with the added scents of smoke, freshly fallen snow, and cooked meat. He brought the brush to his head and started to tug, starting at the bottom and slowly moving to his roots. 

If taking his hair out of the braid had been difficult, this was ten times worse. The comb kept getting snagged in bright-pink knots. Every time it happened, he would let out a string of curses. The constant pulling was giving him a headache, his scalp burning.

After a few minutes, a bit longer than he would care to admit, his hair was combed out and smooth, completely absent of knots. It was still dirty and limp, the strands rough and brittle. Technoblade looked at himself plainly, the reflection in the mirror a distraction. His eyes were bright-red and weary under a pair of square glasses; his skin was covered in battle scars and faint freckles; his claws were long and deadly, dotted in calluses from days spent on the battlefield and farm alike; his teeth looked a bit too sharp to be human. He was hideous. A monster. A god. Untouchable and unstoppable- standing in front of a bathroom mirror, feeling domesticated. 

He sighed and reached for the counter where wooden bottles and crystal containers stood. They were gifts from Phil, smelling sweet and cloying. They were floral; lilac, lavender, and bits of cedar- they made Technoblade want to sneeze. 

He uncorked one bottle, the smell of rose and soothing chamomile permeating the air. He poured some of the oil onto his hands and rubbed them together to warm up the liquid. After a few seconds, he started threading his hands through his hair, working the oil into the roots, kneading his skull. Phil mentioned once how it softened the hair- Technoblade thought that he could use all the help he could get untangling the mess on his skull. It took a few minutes and a few oil pours to completely cover his head. The smell filled the room. It made him feel drowsy. 

Twisting it up into a bun at the top of his head took a few seconds, the strands slipping from his grasp. When he was done and his hair tied-up, he washed his hands with homemade soap to remove excess oil and went downstairs into the kitchen. 

It was almost lunch time and he forgot to eat breakfast. He had some bread left inside his chest but he was running low. He knew he would have to make some more soon. But for now, he cut up a slice and placed some cheese on top for lunch. A couple of vegetables accompanied it after. 

Outside the cottage, snow gently fell, kissing the ground. It was slow weather but Technoblade knew it could easily turn for the worst. Snowstorms were common in this biome. He watched the snowfall for a couple of seconds before turning away, his stomach full. 

He placed a few logs inside the fireplaces dying embers, hoping to get it hot enough for dinner later, then walked back upstairs into the bathroom. 

There was a copper bathtub pushed against the side of the wall and Technoblade was going to use it. Not more bathing in freezing rivers for him. He turned on the hot water, steam quickly filling the room. He always loved the heat- the Nether’s temperature, hot and dry, was the quickest thing he could compare to paradise. 

While the tub was filling with water, he untied the bun, letting the oil strands fall back down to his waist. It was even heavier than before thanks to the added weight the oil gave him. His neck ached slightly. 

He took off his glasses, setting them gently down on the counter before undressing, taking off his white shirt and throwing it to the side. His shoulders were wide, and covered in scars and raised skin that felt too raw to the touch. Technoblade’s hands were too cold. He took off the rest of his clothes and stood bare in the bathroom, the room warm and humid. Yet he still shivered. 

This was wrong. He felt too bare, too vulnerable, too helpless like this. Inside his head the voices crowed, never stopping, a dull thrum in his head that had been with him since the beginning. It was a stark reminder he was never truly alone. Inside his head, he imagined millions of eyes on him, armies marching towards his peaceful home, weapons pointed and cocked to fire- would he be able to take them all on at once? And what would he be doing while they were marching on his home? Sitting in a bathtub with oil dripping down his hair. No, he wasn’t meant, wasn’t _made_ to relax. It wasn’t what he was supposed to do. 

He shook his head, trying not to think about that. He chose peace- he chose to stay away and remain in exile. He gave up his violent ways and he was retired now. He could relax if even for a single second. There was no danger in taking a few minutes to breathe. 

He stepped into the tub. The hot water shocked him for a single moment before he slipped down inside the water, submerging himself completely. The heat relaxed his muscles and he sighed in contentment. It had been so long since he had a proper bath- this felt a rare treat and the idea that he could easily do this against tomorrow didn’t seem comprehensible to him. 

The last few months had been filled with war, rebellions, and betrayal. Technoblade had fought as hard as he could for weeks until his body felt like it was going to fail him. It felt so far off now, like a distant dream. For days after, the string of Tommy’s betrayal scarred Technoblade’s heart. Here, he could almost- _almost_ \- forget it. 

The heat relaxed him so much he nearly forgot why he was taking a bath in the first place. He dunked his head beneath the water, getting his hair wet. He massaged his roots, making sure the water hit every part of his head before reaching for the bar of soap on the wall of the tub. He washed his body first, cleaning away dirt and sand from farming. His skin was covered in bumps and bruises but they were quickly fading, old news and old injuries. He didn’t have the chance to get new ones. 

His skin was turning crimson under the warm water. The tips of his fingers were bright red and turning wrinkly. He stared at them for a couple of seconds in awe. These were the hands that tore ruthlessly into his opponent’s necks, hands that wielded every type of weapon, hands with nails that had blood under them more often than not. They were dangerous, deadly hands, the tendons and bones underneath capable of horrendous, unmentionable things. 

They didn’t look like weapons now. They seemed to say to him, _let us take care of you this time. We’ll be careful, we promise. We’re capable of gentleness._

Did he want to believe them? 

When he was done washing, he grabbed one of the crystal bottles given to him by Phil. He poured some of the thick liquid onto his hands and rubbed them together, lathering it up, then running his hands through his hair. This one smelled like lavender. It was almost bitter. He started at the roots of his hair then made his way down until his head was filled with bubbles and soap. With it, came bits of dirt and sand. 

When he dunked his head down for a second time, the water became murky and cloudy. Technoblade nearly shuddered with disgust- he was used to being covered in grime. It was the price you paid as a soldier. But seeing it like this really put it into perspective. 

On the copper tub wall, there was a pitcher. He grabbed it and filled it with clean water from the tap before pouring it over his head to get out the last of the shampoo. His hair streamed over his eyes, a pink waterfall. 

He repeated the same gestures with conditioner, making sure not to touch his roots this time, only focusing on the middle. It still smelled like lavender. Technoblade was sure he read somewhere that lavender was calming. Was that why Phil got them for him? 

There was something methodical to the motion of rinsing his hair. He felt the same way when planting potatoes, the same continuous motion over and over again, or when he was sharpening his sword. It brought him peace. 

When he was finished he sat in the tub for a few minutes more, staring into nothing, his eyes focusing and unfocusing. The water was starting to grow cold and he knew he would have to leave soon. But his muscles felt sluggish and his head was drowsy- was this what it was like to feel relaxed? To live in a moment where you weren’t in constant danger, where you weren’t constantly being used as a weapon for someone else’s cause? 

He stood up when he was ready and squeezed out his hair. He stepped out of the tub and onto the tiled floor of his bathroom. There were a few towels hung up and he wrapped one around his waist to gather the drops of water still on his skin. With another, he started patting his hair dry, scrunching it up to get all the moisture. 

The mirror was fogged up with steam but it was quickly clearing up. Technoblade finished drying his hair- it wasn’t completely free of moisture but it was as close as he could get it with only a towel. He used the comb to carefully straighten the hair down so that it was even, then reached into the drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. 

There might have been a time, Technoblade supposed, where he would trust other people enough to bring something sharp near his neck. Phil would be a candidate- he still was in some ways. Tommy would have been another, though Technoblade wouldn’t have _actually_ trusted him to cut his hair. Wilbur? Well, Technoblade would have to consider that one a little bit longer. 

But things had changed. Things were different now and their little family was torn apart. 

He wondered how much he should cut off. The fog was completely cleared off the mirror now and he looked at his hair quizzically. The ends were split- there was no hope for them. But how far did he actually want to go? 

In the end, he decided to take off a few inches. The ends no longer touched his waist but rather his middle back. It would be easier in battle, he thought, easier to tie up _but you don’t have to think like that anymore do you?_

It would be easier for farming. 

He swept the strands up off the floor and dumped them into the bathroom garbage. He stepped out of the bathroom and went into his bedroom. He picked out of the softest shirt and pants he could find, putting them on. He didn’t tie his hair up, instead letting it air-dry completely. 

When he headed downstairs, the sun was setting. The sky was orange, pink, and red, and sometime during his bath, the snow stopped. He wondered how long he was actually inside the bathroom, how long he spent in front of a mirror wondering how much to cut off. 

His stomach growled, bringing his attention to what he would make for dinner. The logs he put into the fire before his bath completely burned away, leaving behind bright-red coals. The entire house was warm and bathed in the firelight, smelling of sap and smoke. 

Technoblade threw some more logs inside the fireplace before heading to his food storage chest. There was some cooked beef and some bread that he heated up over the fire for a few minutes. He ate in front of the fire sitting cross-legged on the floor, a few inches from the flame. The food rejuvenated him and the fire burned his cheeks, his entire body bathed in its light. The crackling and dancing of the flame was addicting to watch. 

With nothing else to do and the day finally leaving him behind, he picked out a book to read. He briefly considered The Art of War but decided against it- why would he read a book he memorized a million times over? And what use did it serve him now? 

His home was full of weapons that sang of his glory and power. Would he ever use them again? Would his hands ever wield a sword in battle or would he stay here until the end of time? 

In the end, a book of Greek myths was his choice. He stayed in front of the fireplace, using the flames as his light source. 

He was halfway through the tale of Perseus when he realized that his hair was dry- the heat of the fire helped the moisture evaporate from the strands. He slipped a ribbon between the pages to save his place and put the book down. He reached for the back of his head, running his hands through his hair, his fingers easily slipping through his time. It felt lighter on his head. It felt cleaner than it had in ages. It was soft too. Softer than he thought it would be. 

For years he had been a warrior and a soldier. For a brief amount of time, he had been a tyrant. He was hailed as a Blood God, hailed as a Blood King, worshipped and feared in the same sentence. But he had never been soft. 

Could he have this? Was this his to have? He smelled slightly like flowers and he had gotten used to the ever-present scent of metallic blood around him, a sign of the unending violence in his heart. 

He was far from completely taken-care of. His hair was still brittle in some places and his skin was still covered in old injuries that would only fade in time. His scars still stung and his heart was still heavy. But it made him hopeful that maybe he could be completely clean in time. He could wash his sins away from his hands until nothing remained. 

He tied his hair back in a single braid and climbed upstairs to bed. He had work to do tomorrow. The farm wouldn’t take care of itself- not as he could himself. The rest of the book could wait until tomorrow evening. That thought made him giddy- he was making future plans. 

Technoblade pulled back the feather-heavy blankets of his head and climbed inside, feeling himself become boneless. It wasn’t the giant bed of a King nor the ethereal resting place of a God. It wasn’t even the bed of a blood god or warrior. 

No, it was the simple bed of a simple farmer- someone who was no more, no less. The bed of someone with clean hair. 

Maybe he could have this. 

(Outside his house stood a lone figure. The porcelain white mask shone under the moonlight. Under the ever-present smile, the figure smirked. His grip on his axe tightened. 

_Found you._ ) 

**Author's Note:**

> lmao get fucked techno, ur gonna be pulled from retirement soon 
> 
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed!!


End file.
